Issei
by Sougishiki
Summary: Origin: Makai, v. The cry of a child left alone. Mild slash. Not KuramaXHarry. 5th year AU. EDITED. Formerly 'Shades of Grey.'
1. Prolouge: Roses and Rain

AN: Whoo, its a story! Or at least the beginning of one. I'll work on getting more out soon, but college is a b*tch and finals are coming up. And hols. So, reveiw, tell me what you think.

EDITED 1-9-13

**Prologue**

The sky was threatening rain, its clouds low hanging and dark. The trees surrounding the cemetery were dancing on the wind and creating a gentle music familiar to the ears that listened.

"Hello, Mother. I know it's been a while," a slender hand reached down to the grass next to a headstone. The fingertips dug in, placing some small item in the ground.

"The sakura viewing was beautiful this year. I wish you could have seen it with Hiei and I." The hand didn't leave, rather lying on the cool earth before slowly lifting. A green shoot followed, breaking free of the ground and unfurling small leaves. It continued growing as the young man spoke, "Yusuke and Keiko had their firstborn recently. A little girl they named Aiko. You'd like her, I think."

The shoot was a foot tall now, sprouting small thorns and taking on a bushy appearance. "Kuwabara and Yukina haven't married yet, but Yukina's one-hundredth birthday is coming up soon, so soon they'll be parents, too."

The plant truly was a bush now and had sprouted deep red buds that bloomed into large roses. "I haven't much to say about myself. I've been in Makai mostly, traveling with Hiei or alone. It feels good to be there again. It's so familiar."

He had sat down by the grave now, one knee pulled up to his chest, arms looped around it. Red hair draped over a buttoned shirt. His head was tipped back, green eyes looking to the looming sky. He continued to watch, quiet now as the sky opened up and it began to rain. It fell on the red hair, beading and soaking it. It flattened the formal shirt to the lean body and rolled down pale skin. It fell on eyelashes and the green eyes closed, letting droplets land on eyelids. The rain soaked the ground and the newly grown rose, the tall trees and the gravestone.

It rained for a long time and Kurama sat through it all, until the rain was gone and him with it.


	2. Chapter One: Dreams of Fire

**News:** I am back. I am sorry for the delay, you can always find progress updates on my profile.

**AN:** And now we see things from Harry's side. Please enjoy and review.

**Chspter Warnings:** Gore and angst.

EDITED 1-9-13

**Chapter One: Dreams of Fire**

He hadn't woken up yet, had he? He didn't know this place. Harry was standing in a forest of trees taller than he had ever seen. Many were wider than the Dursley's house and most of them were unknown to him, which wasn't surprising considering he had never had an interest in the only forest he knew, the Forbidden Forest. Wherever he was, the undergrowth was thick with unfamiliar plants. He thought he might recognize some; the bush to his left looked like a rhododendron he'd seen on Privet Drive, and he might have seen ivy somewhere. Harry looked up, trying to see the sky, but the branches and leaves blocked out all of it.

Something rustled behind him and he twisted around to see a pair of bright eyes peeking out through one of the strange bushes. The eyes yipped and soon they were set into the head of a small child with dirt smudged on his face. Brown hair hung down to thin shoulders, and small hands grasped at a branch. Movement above the child's head drew Harry's eyes up and he only now saw the too-large canine ears perched there. They flicked back and forth curiously. As Harry tried to think of something to say or do, the child (what else could he call him?) turned and fled, giggling. The last the boy hero saw of him was the flash of a dark, fluffy tail.

He had to go after him; he had to catch the boy. He didn't know _why_ just that he _had_ to. But he couldn't move. His feet wouldn't respond. He could turn, but found himself unable to take a step forward or back. A sense of terrible dread blossomed in his chest, but he could do nothing about it.

As he watched, paralyzed, the greenery of the forest blackened, decaying and falling from the branches as ash. It spun darkly in the air, turning everything into indistinct silhouettes that seemed to loom over the teen. Soot dug into his throat and lungs, sending him into a fit of coughing that almost brought him to his knees.

When he had recovered and the ash storm died down he looked up again. The only thing he could think was that the world burned and it was only the absence of coals that dissuaded him from this notion, but he had no better way to describe it. Every tree looked charred and the forest was covered in ash.

It was a child's giggle that broke the dead silence that lay over everything. Instinctively, he turned, momentarily surprised when he could do so. The surprise shifted to horrified disgust as he laid eyes on the strange child from earlier. The child, too, had burned. Flesh hung off his small bones as charred strips, showing the white underneath. One of his fox-like ears was burned away, and the bright eyes had melted in their sockets to drip down scorched cheeks. It smiled still, showing more teeth than humanly possible and twisting the hole in one cheek that showed jaw and more tooth.

A shaking hand flew over Harry's mouth, trying to stop the bile that rose quickly in his throat. _Oh god,_ he thought, _how could- why was he still alive?_ Truth be told, Harry knew he wasn't. It was impossible to survive that and still be capable of _laughing_.

"What's wrong, Harry? Are you scared?" The voice was horrible to hear, whistling and scratchy at the same time, made so by the burned, torn windpipe. It was still the voice of a child, high pitched and all the worse for it. "Are you sad? Couldn't save Cedric, couldn't do a thing. The savior of the wizarding world and he can't even save himself!" It laughed, and the sound made the teenager's hackles rise as he vomited, unable to keep anything in his stomach anymore, even if it was just acid and water.

* * *

Sounds of retching filled the room as Harry leaned over the side of his bed to empty his stomach into the pail he had left there. That same dream. It was the same one he'd had for a month now and every time he woke up like this, retching into the bucket. It hadn't been there the first night and he had learned the hard way to leave it there. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on the rag he'd left nearby for just this occasion.

Flopping back onto his bed, Harry tried to get the smell of burnt flesh out of his nose. It would fade eventually, just like it always did. He didn't know why the dream kept coming, as it wasn't from Voldemort. Perhaps that was what made the dream so terrifying, it had come from nowhere and he had no one to blame for it.

When he left the warm bed, it was from the other side, not wanting to be near the bucket or the rag. He went through the motions of pulling on Dudley's cast-offs and slipped on the old, damaged glasses that only helped so much. When he was as ready for his day as he could be, he sat on the side of the bed, making sure the bucket wouldn't be seen from the door and waited for someone to unlock it. Harry didn't have a clock, but from what he could tell from his window, the sun hadn't risen yet.

_Too bad_, he thought, _that it wouldn't be worth trying to sleep._

* * *

The sun had been up for a few hours before Harry's door was unlocked and he was ordered to make his relatives' breakfast. He almost fell down the stairs that morning on his way to the kitchen. The dream was stealing his health more than any of Voldemort's ever had. He never had enough sleep and lost every dinner at some hour of the early morning. The remaining meals were small, though he was constantly accused of bleeding the Dursley's of their money or causing Dudley to starve.

_Oh yes, he's _so_ starved. All he does is sit in front of the telly all day eating, or out beating up some little kid_, the venomous thoughts had always been there, but became worse as he grew more irritable from lack of sleep and gnawing hunger.

There was never a quiet moment for Harry at Number Four. If he wasn't cooking he was cleaning, weeding or any of the other myriad chores about the property. His showers were taken cold and quickly, lest his relatives complain that he was stealing their hot water. The whole summer was taking its toll on him and it had only been a month.

_Just two more months. Then school will start again and I won't have to worry about this until next summer, _but there would be a full year's worth of 'next summers'. Harry didn't think he could handle a year's worth of time here. For now he would try to find some peace in taking care of his aunt's rose bushes detangling the creeping morning glory vines that had built up in his time away. He slipped his hands among the branches, evading the long thorns with ease. He was quite good at gardening, finding it to be the one pleasant chore he had.

When he was called back inside to make lunch he had managed to remove the weeds and prune some of the worse-off roses. He was sweaty and dirty and Petunia screeched at him for getting dirt on her clean floors, but he felt better for his time outside under the sun. After he had served the Dursleys' lunch and even managed to snag some of the ingredients for himself, he was sent up to clean Dudley's room. It was an unpleasant task, made worse by the dirty plates, empty cans, and food wrappers that littered every available surface, along with dirty clothes, papers, and miscellaneous garbage. An hour and three garbage bags later, he was doing the household laundry, tossing in his ragged clothing beside Dudder's tailored uniforms.

While the wash ran, he set about sweeping and vacuuming the rooms upstairs, planning to clean the downstairs the next day while the family was out. Then he was back to the laundry, moving one load to the dryer and starting a new one. The bathroom needed cleaning, so he was there next, leaning over the toilet with ratty gloves and cleaner. The dryer shut off and he was downstairs again, folding clothing and bringing it up to be placed on dressers and hung in closets and the next load was in the dryer and the last one started in the washer.

He was about to start on some of the windows, but that would have to wait, because Dudley was hungry and he was being ordered to make him a snack. Fifteen minutes later he was back in front of the windows with a spray bottle and cloth, until the dryer shut off and he was folding and putting away clothes again and putting the last load into the dryer. Then he was back to the windows and when they were done, the dishes needed doing, especially the ones he'd recovered from Dudley's room. There were enough dishes that he was doing two loads, one in the dishwasher, the other by hand at the same time and then folding clothes _again_ and putting them away _again_ and then fixing dinner and as much as he was allowed for himself and then he was sent to his room, crumpled on his poor bed, feet nearly hanging off the ends, and he was _so tired_.

And then, he was dreaming again. That same horrible dream.

* * *

When he woke up, it wasn't to the end of the dream. He wasn't puking in the bucket, because he hadn't even gotten that far, but he was choking, choking on the thick smoke that was all around him. It was night still and he stumbled out of bed and grabbed his glasses before trying to open the door, but it was locked still and only Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had the keys. He coughed some more, trying to find where the smoke was coming from, but of course he already knew. Sure enough, it was spilling from under the door, billowing up to blanket the ceiling and slowly expanding back to the floor. Still coughing, Harry backed away and tried to think of a way out. Uncle Vernon had locked away all his school things, his wand among them, in the cupboard under the stairs, so even if he _did_ get out of the house, he would lose everything of value to him.

He had to get out, with or without his trunk, and he was running out of time. There was an orange glow under the door now, along with the sound of flames and an intense heat. Harry spun around and…the window! Uncle Vernon had never replaced the bars on the window after the twins and the Ford Angela had ripped them off. He didn't bother grabbing anything as he ran across the room, almost tripping over the bucket beside the bed. He unlatched the window and threw it open, letting in a draft of warm night air. Harry leaned out over the sill, looking down at the ten-foot drop in trepidation. He had fallen and jumped from higher places, but knowing that did not help assuage the uneasy feeling churning in the pit of his stomach.

When he looked back to check on the door, he saw the door handle had started to glow slightly and that the fire had started to eat at the rest of the door and surrounding wall. With no choice left to him, he turned back to the window and jumped.


	3. Chapter Two: The Dead Left Unburied

**AN:** It's Finals Week! But, my term paper is in, which is what had been holding this up so much. Oh, ou're all going to hate me.

EDITED 1-9-13

**Chapter Two: The Dead Left Unburied**

Sharp pain lanced into Harry's side as he hit the ground. Air whooshed out of his lungs in a pained gasp and he rolled over, trying unsuccessfully to breath. Above him the smoke and light from the fire blocked out all but the brightest stars and he focused on these and the act of breathing. With every breath, pain coursed through his side and chest to settle somewhere behind his eyes, turning everything a bit redder. He had landed wrong after he jumped and now lay sprawled out under the window.

Distantly, he could hear the sirens of fire trucks careening down the road and fuzzily thought that they were already too late. The Dursleys were surely dead, either from the fire or smoke inhalation, and he wouldn't last much longer. The night air was laced with smoke and he coughed, absentmindedly remarking on the line of blood that now ran down his cheek. He could place the pain as a broken rib and with the blood, decided it had probably pierced his lung. His breathe rattled wetly in his chest and his lungs still burned from the smoke in his room.

_No, I won't to give up! What will happen to Ron and Hermione? And Voldemort's still out there and Cedric's still dead and, and…_ His mind was fogging and he couldn't think. His lungs were on fire and he couldn't breathe without rasping. Something wet ran down his cheek and it wasn't blood. It was cool and more landed on his eyelids, nose, and forehead. Wearily, he struggled to open his eyes. The sky had clouded while he had had them closed and it had begun to rain. _How ironic,_ Harry thought cynically, _that it should start to rain now_.

* * *

"Are there any survivors?" The question was asked by a soot-stained firefighter standing In front of the burned out hulk of Number Four Privet Drive. The rain pounded on, drenching the smoking ruins and emergency responders alike. The whole scene was a blur of sirens, lights, and movement as paramedics tried to find survivors and carted away the victims.

"Not so far, sir. All we've found is the parents and their son, all dead. Some of the neighbors have said they had another boy living with them and the paramedics are searching for him now," the report was delivered matter-of-factly by another drenched firefighter, soot running in rivulets over his gear.

He was about to give his report on the structure itself when a cry went up from the side of the house, where a paramedic was shouting, "Over here! We found him!"

A stretcher was rushed to the spot, just behind the house and over some rubble where the paramedics were gathering around a still form on the ground. Unnervingly green eyes stared up through the rain and sodden black hair at the fire chief. This was no survivor, he thought grimly, just another casualty. From the looks of it, he had tried to escape by jumping from a window on the second floor and broken a rib and punctured a lung. He was dreadfully thin, dressed only in a worn pair of sleep pants two sizes too large. His chest was mottled with bruises, especially along the left side. Perhaps the rib had caught his heart as well? The chief didn't have time to see any more, as the boy was quickly loaded into a body bag and carted back to the awaiting ambulance to lay with his family.

With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face and called for his SiC, "Make sure they keep the hoses on this for a while. We don't need it flaring or spreading to the rest of the neighborhood."

"Yes, sir!"

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was in chaos. The dual shrieking of an alarm and Walburga had driven everyone from their beds and the Order members had been half way out the door before the children could question them. Now only Molly, Hermione, and the Weasely brood were left in the house, along with a worried, disgruntled Sirius, who had wanted badly to go with the rest. Though they questioned Molly intensely, the students got no answers in regards to the siren. Instead, they sat around the kitchen table, trying to decide for themselves what it had meant.

"Maybe You-Know-Who attacked?" It was Ron's question, from where he sat between Ginny and Hermione, rubbing one eye.

"That doesn't explain how the Order knew, Ron. The alarm was for something specific," Hermione was mumbling into her tea mug, absentmindedly tugging her fluffy robe closer.

Tired silence blanketed the warm room, broken only by the crackling of the kitchen fireplace. Ginny's head had fallen onto her older brother's shoulder when she fell asleep and Ron looked about ready to follow her. The twins were trying to keep each other awake, but their attempts were waning as the night grew on. The group collectively jumped when the door squeaked open and Sirius staggered in, going straight to the teakettle and pouring himself a mug before turning to face the blearily questioning looks, "Don't bother asking. I don't know any more than you lot do about any of this. No one bothers to tell me anything anymore."

On that dreary note, the fugitive staggered back out the way he had come. Ron's head thunked to the scarred table, startling his sister awake as his shoulder moved, "Huh? What?"

* * *

It was a soggy group of misfits that stood before the smoldering ruins of Number Four Privet Drive. The rain still thundered on, sweeping in visible drifts across the dark road. The emergency crews were long gone when the Order had arrived, leaving the wizards with grim wreckage and caution tape.

"How did… That is… Was it Voldemort, do you think?" Tonks' hair was a dismal grey, darker in the rain, and reflected the mood well.

"It couldn't have been. The wards would have been in place. No Dark wizard may enter them," Moody, gruff as ever, false eye whirling in its socket.

"Then how?" The question was so simple, but there seemed to be no answer for it. For a few moments more the group stood in rainy silence, before another spoke up, Remus, face haggard and pale, "I don't believe that's the question we should be asking. Where is Harry?"

This time, the silence was crushing.

* * *

"Rules?"

"No weapons. Hand-to-hand only. Death at five second pin."

"Acceptable. Begin."

Two figures jumped apart and began circling the other. The taller began searching for cover, not for a moment believing his height gave him an edge. He might be more cunning than his opponent, but Hiei was much faster and had strength on his side. There was no cover, their sparring ground a flat plain in Makai. Distantly, Kurama shook away a buzzing in his ear and ignored the pressure in his chest. _It's nothing. Don't think about it, just concentrate on the fight._

Hiei, sensing his opponent's distraction, took full advantage, disappearing in a blur, only to reappear behind the yoko, one arm raised high to strike. Whirling, Kurama raised an arm to guard, swiping the other low, landing a solid blow to the smaller demon's rib cage. With a gasp he sprung away settling into a guarded stance and seemingly ignoring the bruise forming and fading on his stomach. Kurama's tail flicked and he moved to the offensive, feinting to the side before switching to land behind Hiei, hand flat to slice across his back. His hand never made contact as Hiei was already moving, wrapped hand jabbing into kidneys while his foot caught Kurama's chin as he instinctively curled over his wounded stomach. There was a buzzing behind the fox's eyes, almost blurring the world, and the pressure in his chest was back, stronger. He coughed once, rubbing the blood away from his bitten lip. Staggering upright once more, he turned to face the other, who was waiting for him to compose himself.

"So kind of you to wait for me, Hiei. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being quite the gentleman," the yoko let himself smirk, enjoying the scowl sweeping across the fire demons face.

"You've spent far too long among ningen, Fox, if you think that's what I'm doing."

"Yes, yes, I know. But back to our little spar…" He lunged, tackling his smaller opponent to the ground. They scuffled, rolling over and over, each trying to gain dominance over the other. When they came to a stop Kurama lay under Hiei, wrists pinned and teeth snapping. He struggled but could not get free; finally stopping after the count was up.

"Let me up," there was a growl there, accompanied by laid back ears and narrowed gold eyes.

"Hmm, I'm not sure about that. I think I rather like you where you are," there was no challenge here, that battle had just been fought.

Kurama hissed, the buzzing had returned and with it the pain, again stronger. His face twisted and his teeth were bared, unmistakably in pain. Pain was somehow worse when it was internal. Hiei had noticed, of course, "Fox? What's wrong?" His brows were furrowed and face darkening.

The other didn't reply, to busy fighting off the pain, pounding now in his chest. The white noise was forming almost-words, jumbled garbling pleas echoing through his mind. His teeth grit together as his eyes clenched tight and Hiei began shaking him, demanding to know what was wrong. Finally, when the pain seemed at its crescendo and the noise was causing his eyes to water, something snapped and only a quiet whispering was left:

_Help me._


	4. Chapter Three: Scars

_Author's Note: _I know this is a bit shorter than usual, but it felt finished. Next one should be up soon. As always, reviews are absolute love.

**Warnings:** Non-invasive autopsy.

EDITED 1-9-13

**Chapter Three: Scars**

When Yoko Kurama next woke, night had fallen. They hadn't moved far from the field they had sparred in earlier and Hiei had started a fire. (This had to be for his benefit, seeing as Hiei had little need for the heat it provided and neither of them needed the light.) Speaking of the little demon…

It took but a moment for golden eyes to scan the other side of the small camp and find Hiei seated, one leg tucked under his chin and an arm around it, red eyes staring at him in glazed boredom. Yoko sat up, shaking his head and flicking dirt from sensitive ears. Taking stock of himself he came to the conclusion that a) he wasn't injured (not that he had expected to be, but a check never hurt) and that b) the little voice was still desperately whispering in the back of his mind. Slowly, he sat up, one pale hand running over the side of his face and into his hair.

Across the fire, Hiei blinked and refocused on his partner, "Kurama. What was that earlier?"

Taking a deep breath, the old thief thought about how to explain without bringing up bad memories, "How much do you know about Issei?"

Hiei's expression didn't change, but he did seem to be thinking about it. Finally, he answered, eyes narrowed, "It's a word. In Japan it can mean a voice, a cry, a shout, an existence, a generation, or a lifetime. I don't think that's what you mean."

How astute, "No, that's not what I mean." His head shook, trailing silver hair over his shoulders. Trying to dislodge the voice. "Among some of the clans in Makai, Issei refers to the cry a child makes when there is no one to take care of it. When a child has no caregiver, it cries out to its closest living relative. It can be…painful at first, for the one who hears it."

Narrowed eyes widened, "Are you saying…" _A child. Well doesn't that just fuck everything up?_

"It would appear so." _I'm sorry._

"I wasn't aware you had children." _When did this happen? Did you betray me?_

"Only one. A very long time ago. He must have had children…" _I wonder what happened?_ It had been centuries since he had visited his kit and his mother. Not since the child had reached majority.

"Then he's dead. And his mate. And any closer family." Because that's what it came down to. Kurama wouldn't be called if there was anyone else.

Kurama shot him an exasperated look, "How very blunt of you, Hiei." Couldn't he bother with tact? Just this once?

"Hn. When will you be leaving?" _Because you will. That's just how it works._

Yoko sighed, "I should leave now. I don't know what the situation is. The kit could be in danger. If I wait, anything could happen."

Hiei closed his eyes. Of course, there could be no hesitation in this. The Fox would do anything for family.

"But I won't. I'll leave tomorrow, at first light," There was warmth in his eyes.

Hiei opened his eyes, "Hn. Whatever you say, Fox."

When Hiei woke early the next morning, Kurama was already gone.

* * *

When the senior M.E. had assigned Astor the latest corpse to autopsy and told him it was a victim of a fire last night, he had expected a charred piece of meat and bone. What he got, however, was a teenaged boy with pale skin and messy black hair. He hadn't died of smoke inhalation, hadn't been burned, in fact, there was nothing to tell the M.E. that he had been involved in a fire at all.

What he _did_ have was blood in and on his mouth, a painfully thin physique, and a bruise that covered the left side of his chest that was so big that it made the doctor suspect cause of death. But he wouldn't know for sure until he got him cleaned up and into x-ray.

That would have to wait, too. First he would have to document the body. The camera was in a bin on the other side of the room, but it didn't take more than a few paces to reach it and return to the autopsy table. He started with a wide angle of the whole body, then zoomed in to work on the face. And such a thin face it was. Had he eaten poorly? His skin was clear, oddly so for a teenager, but pale and his cheekbones were more clearly visible than would have been healthy. There were dark circles under his eyes, had he been sleeping poorly? The camera flashed again and in its aftermath the examiner noticed something.

"What's this now?" A gloved hand brushed back the lank fringe, exposing a scar just off center on the forehead. Grey eyes narrowed and were covered by a camera's lens. _Flash_.

Disconcertingly, there were quite a few injuries to this unknown boy that didn't coincide with a ten foot fall. They looked far more like abuse. Astor would have liked to rub a hand over his face, but he couldn't, not gloved as they were. He sighed anyway, brow furrowing as he bit the inside of his cheek. This wasn't going to get any better, was it? Shaking his head, he continued with his work. Photograph every inch of the _corpse _(he had to remember this was not a person, not anymore), from every angle. Try not to think too hard yet on the scars on his back and sides, or the bruises, or the cuts that never healed, or that one scar on his right elbow that looked _so _painful. There would be plenty of time later to think about all the horrible implications.

When he had done this, from the crown of his head to the pads of his feet, the camera was set down, its film canister placed in an evidence bag and both placed on a nearby countertop. He brought back with him a file and a tape recorder. Now he could think all the horrible things he had tried not to before.

Name: John Doe

Age: approx. 15 years

So young. Too young to be on his table.

Race: Caucasian

Gender: Male

Height: 1.77 m

Short for his age. Genetics or malnourishment?

Weight: 53.99 kg

Too light. More evidence for abuse and neglect.

Hair Color: Black

Hair Length: approx. 20 cm.

Eye Color:

The pen stopped moving. He hadn't looked at the eyes yet. The young man stood and walked back to the table. Two gloved thumbs gently pulled back the membranous eyelids. Oh my… such beautiful eyes. A pity, that their owner should be dead.

Eye Color: Green

Tattoos: None

Scars: Lightning bolt, 5.09 cm, forehead

Puncture, 8.2 cm, inner right elbow

Laceration, 17 cm, inner left forearm

Laceration, 24.06 cm, upper back

Laceration, 23.8 cm, upper back

Laceration, 18 cm, middle back

Laceration, 21.1 cm, middle back

Laceration, 16.7 cm, lower back

That was the very abbreviated list, and Astor was sure he would add to it as the autopsy continued. Such was the nature of the beast. He set the pen down and returned to the corpse, carrying with him a sample kit. The blood around pale lips was swabbed, along with the dirt on small hands. He was printed and a blood sample was taken. A pair of steel scissors cut a lock of the messy black hair, which fell into a sample bag, sealed and placed on the counter with the others. There was not much of a nail, so the ME made do with a few thin slivers from a few fingers.

"Astor," the voice startled him badly enough to miss with the nail clippers and cut the skin on one finger. He whirled to see a taller man standing in the doorway. His hair was long and black, tied into a tail with a fringe that hung down on each side of his face. He was dressed much as Astor was scrubs and a lab coat. Green eyes stared down at him, but there was mirth there. How different, these eyes and the pair on his table, so very different! "It's time to go. Your shift's over." Was it so late already?

"Eh? Oh, alright. I'll clean up here and meet you out front, ok, Gabriel?" It felt good to be able to smile at him after today.

The older man nodded and pushed away from the door, padding down the sterile hall with a swish of long hair. Astor smiled again and began to pack away his materials. A tiny flash of red caught in the corner of his eye before he turned away completely. On the floor beside the autopsy table there was a small drop of blood, another fell to join it as he turned fully to focus on it. Tracking up, Astor watched as the small cut on the body's finger slowly closed, leaving only a trace of blood on the skin to show it had ever existed.

A shaking hand reached out to lift a colder one, fingers placed on the wrist to check for a pulse he knew would not be there. The young man leaned down and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. What he found surprised him and his eyes flared open, "Gabriel!"

In a moment, the tall man was in the doorway, and then at Astor's side as he crouched bedside the drooping arm, "What is it? Why is there blood on the floor?"

"He's not dead. Gabriel he's not dead!" there was an excitement to his voice that Gabriel rarely heard this late in the workday.

"What do you mean, 'he's not dead?' He's on your table."

"No, Gabriel, Gabriel, he's not human. He's something else."

There was a hush to his partner's voice now, "Not human? Is he like you?"

"No…not yet," Bright grey eyes glinted in the harsh light, "We can't leave him here. Help me get him to the car. We're going to have a guest for a few days."


	5. Chapter Four: Magic-Users

**AN:** I apologize for the long, long wait with this chapter. Life got busy, what with graduation and more college and such. I also went back over the plot outline for this story and fixed plotholes and gave myself a clearer plot to write. Now, I have also gone over and edited the previous chapters. **You need to go reread them as I've added or changed quite a few points. They won't seem major right now, but they will be important later on. **You'll also notice a title change. It was something I felt I needed to do and the new title fits the story much better.

Now, I've kept you long enough. Please enjoy.

**Chapter Four: Magic-Users**

He had expected to find his child in Makai. After all, it only made sense that a kit would be in its home world. _It's never so easy is it?_ That's why he was here, in front of what had been a house in the very recent past. If by 'in front of' one meant 'hiding behind the bushes of the vacant house across the street from invisible men in robes' that is.

Kurama had followed the voice to Ningenkai's England, growing evermore worried as he went. He had made good time, as Makai's landmass was not a mirror of Ningenkai's. It had barely been eighteen hours Makai time, which translated to about ten, Ningenkai time. Too long, he should not have stayed with Hiei but how could he have known that his destination would be so far away?

The Issei sent pictures of the house burning and he had run all the faster to find it. The magic-users had shocked him when he finally stopped his panicked race. He did not want to think too long on _why_ they were there. If they had some hand in the death of the kit's parents…there was a reason yokai tried to stay away from England. No good came from magic-users.

Face pale, he had sunken down to crouch behind the bushes of Number Seven Privet Drive with a tight hold on his energy. Plans and counter-plans flew through his mind, interwoven with the Issei's shrieking. Before anything could be done, or any intelligent plan created, he would have to know more about the situation. He wouldn't do any good rushing in like Yusuke and getting killed. Or worse.

A jerk of his head sent long red hair twisting over his shoulder and the dangerous thoughts from his head. Thoughts like that could wait for later. Absentmindedly, a hand flicked the wayward strands over his shoulders, then froze. Kurama had automatically assumed his human form when he crossed the border near Stonehenge. Perhaps he could…? Yes, that might just work. _It had better_.

* * *

"Excuse me? What's happened?" Several of the Aurors closest to the road looked up to see a young man with very red hair walking up to the crime scene border, looking curiously at the demolished structure.

"And who might you be?" The head of the investigation stood near the demolished entryway.

"I live nearby. Could you please tell me what happened?" The stranger was staring over the auror's shoulder at the site, as if looking for something.

"Sir, I'm afraid I am not at liberty to say. I'm sure you'll see it in the Prophet," he turned to leave. Really, some people could be so nosy…

He hadn't managed to take a step when a hand descended on his shoulder, stopping him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose sharply and a chill ran down his spine. "Please. I _need_ to know. What happened?" The auror's grip on his wand tightened. There was something not quite right about this man; his manner had cracked, showing something dark and strange underneath, something he could almost name.

His men were paying attention now as they continued to work with the scene. They were a comfort, but there was talk of dark forces moving in the country these days and one could not be too careful.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. There will be an article in the Daily Prophet tomorrow and you can read all about it then," the auror's voice was hard and brooked no argument. He put his shoulders back and tried to take another step forward.

"Was anyone killed?" The stranger's voice was softer now, clearly dreading the answer. Turning to look at him, the auror could see the dread there, too. He could spare him this one answer. Maybe it would make him leave.

"Yes."

* * *

Kurama had known the answer before he asked the question. It was obvious, really, but he'd wanted to see how the magic-users reacted. And no matter that he had known, hearing that part of his family, his grandchildren, had been killed was painful. For a long moment after he let the human go he stood there, steeling himself. He desperately wanted to hit something, these men, preferably. No good came from magic-users and if what he suspected was true and these men had killed his family-

But no. He had to focus. If he attacked now, outnumbered as he was, he would be at least wounded and that would slow him down. He had to find the child. Later, he could come back and find these men. But the child had to come first.

Kurama turned away and started down the street, focusing on the scared little voice in the back of his head. He had found the last place the child remembered and it hadn't been there. Hopefully, the kit would be somewhere nearby. The Issei had led him here, but now Kurama would have to track the child another way. He would try to track its energy, he decided, but he had to get farther away from the magic-users before he could loosen the tight hold he had on his own power. If they realized what he was, they would attack and Kurama couldn't afford to die again anytime soon.

Once he had left Privet Drive, the demon relaxed and let some of his power seep out again. He concentrated on the Issei, which he hoped to use to catch a hint of the child's power. There wouldn't be many demons in this part of the country and that would make his task easier, but knowing the energy pattern he was looking for would be far quicker than checking every demon in the city.

As he walked along the sidewalk he discovered quite quickly that there were no demons in the suburbs. Kurama had expected this; he hadn't thought that a kidnapper would stay too close. Kidnapping was the most plausible scenario right now anyway, since the child's parents were dead and it didn't know where it was. And so the demon changed course for the city proper where he could hide in the crowds and expand his search radius without being found by magic-users.

* * *

A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind and a soft voice murmured next to his ear, "How is he?"

On any normal day, the two coroners would have been sleeping by now. Instead, they had spent the morning and afternoon keeping an eye on the unconscious boy who had ended up on Astor's table. "He's healing. I think his ribs are mostly good now and a few of his cuts are gone," Astor brought up a hand to the arms draped over him and looked up, "I don't think he'll wake up for a while, though. There's still a lot to heal."

Behind him, Gabriel pressed a kiss between his ears, "You should try to get some sleep, I can watch him for a while."

Astor turned back to the sleeping boy and his ears turned down, "I know, but…what if he does wake up?"

"Then I'll wake you up. Don't worry, love, we'll both be fine. Please try to sleep, you've been awake too long as it is." He knew he'd won when Astor got up with a sigh and turned towards the door. Gabriel took his seat and watched the barely noticeable rise and fall of the boy's chest.

He knew Astor had a soft heart, it was one of the reasons he loved the demon, and he hoped no harm would come from harboring a throw-back. They didn't even know his name. At the same time, he couldn't abandon a child who had obviously been abused for years. His lover hadn't said anything, but he didn't have to. There were scars all over the boy's back and some of the bruises on his chest were old. He was too thin and even in sleep he looked wary.

There was also the fact that Astor had said the boy's eyes were green and if Gabriel looked at the boy just _so_ he looked a bit like Astor and they had been thinking of adopting a child for several months. This child was already too old to adopt, but there was something in him that seemed young and vulnerable. Something Gabriel wanted to protect.

* * *

The sun was just fading from his window when Astor started awake. He hadn't slept more than four hours, but there was enough adrenaline in his veins that it didn't matter. He hadn't felt an aura this large since he left Makai and it terrified him. He was darting into the second bedroom before he knew it, suppressing his energy to make himself as non-threatening as he could in the presence of a stronger predator.

Gabriel hadn't noticed (of course he hadn't, he was human, why should he?) but Astor's panic let him know something was wrong and he stood up as his small partner dug into a trunk in the corner, pulling out a pair of old daggers and strapping them to his waist.

The human snagged his lover around the middle as he tried to rush passed and he could feel the nervous energy thrumming under his skin, "What's going on?"

"There's a really strong demon and it's coming this way. Dammit, I left Makai so I wouldn't have to deal with this!" The human watched his panicked lover's ears flick between lying flat on his head and rigid alertness and was reminded of a scared child peeking through his fingers.

"Shh, shh. The door is locked, the windows are locked, we are on third floor. It's not coming for us; we're safe right where we are. It's probably just passing through. We'll be fine," even if he wasn't sure he believed it, there was nothing they could do to prepare more. If worst came to worst, they could run, but if the stories Astor had told him were true…

There was a knock on the front door.


End file.
